Masks
by Mysterious Truth
Summary: Everyone wears masks, whether consciously or unconsciously, to hide who they truly are. Except for him. He was the only one who didn't. Joker origin and Joker/OC
1. I

**Hello, everyone! So, as it says in the summary, this will be a Joker/OC story. I reckon that the first half will focus on Jack Napier, or how the Joker came to be, and the latter half will skip forward about ten years to focus on our Mr. J himself. I have a feeling that this is going to turn out to be quite long, so expect regular updates. Please leave a review letting me know your thoughts, and hopefully you'll find it to your liking!**

**DISCLAIMER: Nope, don't own anything.**

* * *

**1988**

When Freya Miller was seven years old, the Napier family moved in across the street.

It was the most exciting thing to happen to her that summer, as well as one of the most unusual. The suburb, an area on the mainland with spacious lawns and large, sprawling houses with the pleasant name of Bridlewood Heights, used to be its own separate town before Gotham had swallowed it up during the economic boom of the seventies and claimed it as yet another district. Through the trees that lined the coast and across the bay, the city skyline stretched out in the distance, covered by an omnipresent layer of smog. The residents of Bridlewood, New Jersey, as it used to be called before its inception into the city, were mostly all aging baby boomers, too old to have children but too young to be sent to a nursing home. The vast majority of them had lived in the houses since they were built, and it was rare for anyone to move in or out. It was even rarer for them to have children.

As long as she could remember, Freya and her brother had been the only people under the age of thirty on the entire block. That was why a new neighbor was a momentous event.

It was a hot July day, the height of summer, and the air hung heavy over the neighborhood, stifling and oppressive. The cicadas buzzed loudly in the grass, and even the birds seemed too hot to sing. Freya had been sent outside by her mother, who had a headache and couldn't rest with her "incessant chatter", or so she called it. Freya had asked what "incessant" meant, but her mother had just gone up to her bedroom and shut the door.

Now she lay flat on her back in the tall grass in the front lawn, her hair spreading like a fan around her head as she tried to find shapes in the clouds drifting by. She thought she saw a unicorn in one, and became very excited until the cloud had broken apart and started looking more like a donkey. Now she was sure it had turned into a frog, and eagerly pointed up at the sky. "Ben! Look!" she called, but there was no answer from her brother, who had been sitting beside her just a moment ago, trying to catch cicadas.

Ben was ten to Freya's seven, and the more adventurous of the two. He was always attempting ridiculous dares, and often got in trouble at school. His so-called immaturity was the reason Freya wasn't allowed to go in the swimming pool without adult supervision—she had nearly drowned after he'd deliberately pushed her in when she was five. Freya had always held a grudge against him after that, though she was willing to let it go for several hours on days like today when she had no one else to play with.

When her brother didn't immediately answer, Freya pushed herself up onto her elbows, confused. He was nowhere to be seen. "Ben!" she yelled again, shaking the grass from her hair. "Where are you?"

"I'm over here, dummy!" she heard him say, faintly, but the cry came from above her.

Squinting against the harsh glare of the sun, Freya tilted her head up to see Ben perched on the topmost branch of the willow tree that hung over the street, sitting in it as calmly as if it was a chair. His legs dangled as he swung them over the edge, the branch creaking slightly with his weight.

Freya gasped. "Ben, you're not allowed to climb that tree!" she shrieked. "Daddy said not to!"

"But he's not here now!" Ben argued. He laughed, and the motion sent him tilting slightly to the side. His face froze in fear for a moment before he quickly righted himself.

Freya scrambled to her feet, the clouds forgotten. "I'm going to tell!" she said stubbornly, planting her hands on her hips, but made no move to run back inside the house. She didn't want to upset her mother; besides, there was a part of her that was fascinated at what Ben had managed to do.

"Aw, come on! Don't be a tattletale!" her brother called down. His eyes took on a mischievous quality. "You're just jealous because you can't climb," he taunted.

"I can too!" Freya argued with all the determination and recklessness of a child. She ran over to the tree and hoisted herself up onto the first branch, maneuvering herself into a crouch. She wasn't more than five feet off the ground, but her legs began to tremble all the same. A moving van turned the corner and roared down the street, but Freya didn't pay it any attention. Her desire to prove herself increased as Ben laughed down at her, and her brow furrowed in concentration while she doggedly pulled herself up onto the second branch. This one was even thinner than the first, and Freya feared it might snap right in two.

The slam of a door from nearby startled her, and she spun around guiltily, thinking it was their mother. But after a moment she realized it was coming from the wrong direction, and instead of her mother's stern, lecturing voice, she heard the high-pitched, excited voice of a child.

Instead of jumping to the ground, Freya pulled the layer of dangling leaves in front of her aside, secure in her new hiding spot, and peeked through the crack. The white colonial-style house across the street, the one Freya vaguely remembered as having belonged to an old, funny-smelling woman with lots of cats, now had a moving van in in the driveway, the same one she had seen earlier. The front doors were thrown wide open, and big, burly men wearing hard hats and orange jumpsuits were carrying boxes inside. Freya's eyes widened; a new family must be moving in!

Ben was calling down to her again, probably wondering why she had stopped climbing the tree, but Freya's attention span was as quick as a butterfly's, and she was suddenly engrossed in this new, exciting development. She was wondering where the old lady had gone when a tall, blond man wearing a business suit strode out of the house, watching the men bringing the boxes inside. Freya wasn't close enough to see his face properly, but she could tell that he had a pointed chin and receding hairline: he looked like the men her father worked with—they were so boring; all they did was drink coffee and talk about business. Freya disliked him immediately.

Now a woman had climbed out of the van—she was tall, too, and slender, like the models Freya saw on television. She had blonde hair like the man, but with dark roots that hinted at a dye job. Freya saw diamond earrings sparkling in the light even at her distance, and she leaned forward, fascinated. She could already tell the woman was very beautiful. Her arm reached back into the car and pulled out someone else, but it wasn't immediately clear who it was: they were short, a child's height, but stooped over so much that they appeared younger than they were. The mysterious stranger wore a black shawl even in the scorching heat, draped over their head and shoulders so that it was impossible to tell what they really looked like. The woman glanced around furtively, as if making sure no one was watching, before she led the shawl-covered figure inside the house, supporting it as if it couldn't walk on its own.

Freya was now leaning so far forward that she was in danger of losing her balance. But she had heard a child's voice shouting…where was the child? Had it been the covered person? Maybe she could make new friends…

But her question was answered a second later when the van doors opened yet again and a boy her age appeared, lugging a heavy backpack behind him. He wore a pair of ripped, torn jeans and a checkered shirt pushed up to his elbows that was far too big for him; Freya thought she saw bruises on his arms. His hair was blond, curly, and very messy, as if he'd constantly been dragging his fingers through it. Unlike the woman, he didn't rush up to the house; instead, he stayed in one spot, examining his new surroundings carefully.

By now, Freya was too excited to contain herself. "Hey!" she called, and hopped down from the branch onto the ground. The boy's head snapped around in her direction, and Freya dashed madly across the street, not looking both ways to check for traffic.

She stopped in front of him, face flushed from the heat and smiling as widely as she could. Up close, she could see that not only were his arms covered with bruises, there was one at the base of his throat, a ghastly purple color. He quickly pulled down his sleeves when he caught her staring. He had bright brown eyes that were narrowed suspiciously at her, and he was taller than she'd thought. But Freya didn't let any of that deter her. "Hi," she said enthusiastically. "I'm Freya Miller. What's your name? I live in that house—" She jerked her thumb back in the general direction. "I'm seven and three-quarters. How old are you? Is your family living here now? Do you know what happened to—"

"My name is Jack," he interrupted, and his gaze turned from suspicious to searching. "I just turned eight." Freya couldn't help but wonder if he was lying; there was something about his eyes that looked much older, even older than Ben.

"Do you have a last name?" Freya asked eagerly, desperate to begin their friendship. "Everyone has a last name."

The boy's lips twitched upward as if he wanted to laugh, but his eyes stayed blank. "Napier," he said after a long moment.

Freya was nearly dancing from foot to foot with joy. "So can we be friends now, Jack?" she asked happily. The blond man was watching them from the doorstep, his mouth set in a thin, hard line, but she barely noticed. "I'll show you our pool and maybe we can go swimming when Daddy gets home—"

"No," Jack mumbled. He looked away from her, down at the ground, and scuffed a rock with his shoe.

Freya's face fell; she had never been rejected so quickly or so matter-of-factly. "Why not?" she whined. "Am I too ugly? Ben says I am, but—"

"I can't," Jack said shortly, but he sounded as if he was reciting a line that had been fed to him a hundred times before. "I mean, I don't want to."

Before Freya could respond, the man on the doorstep was suddenly standing above them, his hand on Jack's shoulder. Jack flinched away from him, his head still bowed. "Come inside now, Jack," the man said. He didn't bother to acknowledge Freya aside from a cold stare—his eyes were even darker and more piercing than Jack's—before leading his son up the driveway and into the house.

Freya sniffled, her eyes stinging. She hated that she was crying, and she hated Jack for making her cry. "Fine!" she screamed up at the house as loudly as she could. "I don't want to be your friend, either!"

A hand clamped over her mouth from behind, and Ben, who'd climbed down from the tree as soon as he'd seen her speaking to Jack, roughly dragged her backward, kicking and screaming. "Shut _up!" _he hissed in her ear. "What is _wrong _with you?"

Freya was by now sobbing so hysterically there was no calming her. Ben shook his head in disgust, and muttering something about girls, glanced up at the house one more time. A face had appeared in one of the windows at the sound of Freya's shrieks—a young girl's face, with blond hair shorn to her ears and large eyes. She stared down at them without moving or blinking, and with a jolt of terror that Ben didn't even want to admit to himself that he felt, he thought for a split second that she was a ghost.

Grabbing Freya's hand, he pulled her back across the street, through the front lawn, and back inside their own house, slamming the door behind them. When his heart had slowed, he turned around and lifted the curtain from the window.

The girl was gone.

Shuddering, Ben ran off to play with his video games and left Freya to the mercy of their mother, pushing the unease out of his mind.

That was the first time Freya saw Jack Napier.

* * *

At dinner that night, the subject of their new neighbors was brought up once again. Nicholas, the patriarch of the family, was a prominent banker at Wayne Enterprises, and as such was rarely home. Usually Ben and Freya were delighted at the chance to spend time with their father, but tonight both of them were unusually silent. Ben pushed his peas around his plate with his fork, one hand supporting his head, and Freya was swirling her mashed potatoes into her ketchup, but she didn't seem to care.

"So," Nicholas announced, surveying both of his children with detached affection, "I'm surprised neither of you have mentioned the new family that just moved in across the street."

"I _hate _them," Freya declared, glaring down at her plate. Nicholas glanced questioningly at his wife, Patricia, but she just raised her eyebrows as if to say, _What can we do about her?_

"What happened to Mrs Jones?" Ben mumbled. "I liked her. She would bring me lemonade and cookies whenever she saw me." He didn't mention that her house had also been ghost-free.

"Mrs Jones could no longer take care of herself and was sent to a special home last month," Patricia, the neighborhood gossip, said after she'd finished scolding Freya for playing with her food. "The Napiers bought the house right away."

"I was talking to George Napier when I got home," Nicholas added. "He has a son Freya's age, named Jack, but George asks that neither of you play with him. Apparently the family likes to keep to themselves." He snorted. "I suppose they think we're not good enough. Just because George is a professor at the university…" Shaking his head, he pushed away his plate and stood up.

"I heard that his wife used to be a model," Patricia murmured. She no longer looked tired; her eyes were sparkling with the thrill of gossiping. "She gave it all up to have children."

Nicholas paused on his way out of the dining-room, stopping to look back at her. "Children? George only mentioned Jack. I was under the impression they only had one."

Patricia smiled. She couldn't wait to tell the other women in the neighborhood the knowledge that she'd heard through the grapevine weeks ago. "They have a nine-year-old-daughter too—Gladys told me that there's something not quite right with her. She was injured as a baby and has permanent brain damage. The Napiers don't like to talk about her."

Ben remembered the apparition he had seen in the front window, and shuddered. To cover up his fear, he kicked Freya under the table. She began to howl, and while Nicholas and Patricia were distracted he ran out of the room, stopping to peer through the front curtains in the living-room. Across the street, the moving van had left, and now the house looked perfectly peaceful again without even a light visible in any of the windows.

As if no one was living there at all.


	2. II

**Wow! I'd like to say a big thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and followed this story! I didn't expect such a response, and such an overwhelmingly positive one at that. So I decided to post this chapter a few days early. I hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

**1991**

When Freya was eleven, her mother died.

It wasn't foreseen, but neither was it entirely unexpected, however. One day Freya and Ben came home from school and sat down at the table while their mother explained to them that she had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. It started out in her brain, she said, and Freya remembered all the years where Patricia had tired quickly, when she'd had headaches that the doctor had called migraines—but by the time it was detected, the cancer had already spread to her lungs and liver, and the stage was too advanced for an operation. Barely six months later, she was dead, having passed away in her bed at Gotham General in the middle of the night, with not even a nurse to hold her hand.

But the thing that tore Freya apart the most was the fact that it could have been preventable if had been caught early enough. Patricia had been feeling seriously ill for at least a year before the diagnosis, so why hadn't she gone to the doctor? When Freya had asked her that very question, several weeks before she died, Patricia had just closed her eyes and mumbled something about thinking it was a mid-life crisis and it would eventually pass. But Freya knew she was lying. Her insides burned with rage—not just at her mother, but at the incompetent doctors who'd failed to recognize the symptoms in time, at her father for refusing to think about anyone other than himself, and at her brother for never being there when she wanted to cry with him. On the morning after Patricia's death, he'd said to her, "Sucks, doesn't it? At least she's not in pain anymore," and left the room. Freya had heard a barely-suppressed sob in his voice, but he'd made it clear that his method of grieving was not the same as hers. Not that anyone expected a fourteen-year-old boy to cry on someone's shoulder, but she thought he could at least be a bit more expressive.

And although Freya knew it was irrational, she blamed her mother for not seeking treatment sooner, for refusing chemotherapy and drugs that could have at least prolonged her life. Instead, she had slept in her hospital bed for months on end, her family forced to watch her slowly wasting away. On a bitterly cold, rainy November morning, the three remaining Millers huddled under an umbrella and watched Patricia's coffin lowered into the dirt with a finality that was somehow even worse than seeing her body had been. Freya was able to wipe the moisture off her glasses and blame it on the rain.

Nicholas half-heartedly proposed going to a restaurant after the funeral, but it was obvious no one was hungry, and so they drove in silence back to their house. Freya didn't bother taking off her coat or shoes when she walked in the front door; she just went straight up to her bedroom, shut the door, and curled up in the window seat, hugging a cushion tightly to her chest.

The rain outside was pounding against the glass, leaving streaks that looked like tears. If Freya had been less practical, she might have thought it was a real-life example of pathetic fallacy instead of Gotham's usual wet, bleary autumn. She rested her cheek against the window and half-closed her eyes. She knew she wouldn't be able to cry anymore. Instead she was filled with an aching exhaustion that somehow reached all the way down into her bones. If only Patricia had gone to the doctor sooner…if only she'd agreed to receive treatment…_if only…_

Freya was now staring blindly over at the Napiers' house across the street, willing her thoughts to take a less painful turn. Instead of concentrating on what could have been, she forced herself to think about anything other than her mother, which was much harder than it sounded. She had learned everything she knew about their mysterious neighbors from Patricia, who had been the neighborhood gossip. Freya used to tease her about this and had never understood the rabid curiosity to know the goings-on of everyone who lived around them. Now she would give anything to hear her mother gossip again.

Nicholas hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said that the Napiers liked to keep to themselves. In the three years that they'd lived across the street, Freya rarely saw any of them, and her bedroom window faced their house. She and Ben often referred to them as the "Addams Family of Gotham", and although he'd once dared her to run up and ring their doorbell, Freya had been quick to refuse. She didn't even go to their house on Halloween. Their front door always stayed shut, their curtains drawn tightly closed even in the heat of summer.

George reportedly taught criminology at the university, and indeed he was the one who Freya saw most often—although she could count those times on one hand. He would walk from the house to his car, or vice versa, dressed in that same bland suit she'd first seen him wearing, without acknowledging anything or anyone.

His wife, the former model Alice, was even more of a mystery. Freya had seen her once in the grocery store shortly before Patricia's diagnosis and smiled, but the woman had just stared though her as if she hadn't even noticed her presence. Admittedly, Freya wasn't too offended: if Alice had never left the house in years, as she privately thought was the case, it wasn't plausible that she would even know who her neighbors were.

But the strangest aspect of all was that of the two children, Jack and Mary. The supposedly brain-damaged Mary had never been seen by anyone, and Freya had come to associate her with Mr. Rochester's mad wife in _Jane Eyre, _kept locked up in the attic. Ben had told her that he'd seen the ghost of a little girl in the window once, and though Freya had laughed at him, later she began to wonder if he'd seen Mary after all. Her heart went out to the poor girl: the Napiers were the oddest family Freya had ever known.

And according to Patricia, who still kept up with the news even when she'd been in the hospital, Jack went to a boarding school along the coast—that, at least, explained why Freya never saw him. She no longer saw their first encounter as her fault or proof of her lack of worth; instead, she looked back on it with embarrassment and more than a little bit of regret. She had been too forthcoming as a child, and knew she wouldn't make that same mistake again.

But Freya didn't care about them anymore, really. It all paled in comparison to her loss.

She pulled her knees up to her chin and rested her forehead on her knees, knowing she was wallowing in self-pity but not caring. She didn't want to have to go to school the next day; to face the curious gazes and the false pity and the sympathetic looks. The transition back to normal life would be the most difficult. How was she supposed to do her homework or concentrate on anything without somehow being reminded of Patricia?

It wasn't _fair._ Why did _she _have to suffer? She was a good person. Her mother had been a good person, if a bit garrulous. Freya didn't deserve this.

Feeling a mixture of frustration and grief bubbling inside her, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut as if to keep her emotions bottled up inside. But the more she fought against them, the more they threatened to consume her. She finally gave up and tried to force the tears out—she figured it was better to do it now than before she was caught off-guard at the worst possible moment—but none came. She had already mourned her mother while Patricia was still alive. Still, there was a part of her that felt guilty for not crying, but _hollow_ somehow, as if something essential had been removed from her, like her heart or her lungs.

Over the sound of the rain, she heard a muffled slam, and Freya opened her eyes again, disoriented. Across the street, her gaze fell on a hooded figure walking down the Napiers' driveway, shoulders hunched against the rain.

She leaned forward, intrigued despite herself. The slim build and clothes—jeans and a dark sweater—told her that it was Jack. He carried a covered rectangular dish in his hands. Out of the corner of her eye, she could have sworn she saw one of the curtains in the Napiers' house flutter, as if someone was watching him, but Freya convinced herself it was just her imagination.

She expected him to continue down the street, or even to get in the car, but instead he crossed the street and began walking up their driveway.

Freya froze; what was he doing, today of all days? She stayed stock-still, like an animal sensing a predator was near, until she heard the distant chime of the doorbell.

Freya waited for her father or brother to answer it so she could eavesdrop on the ensuing conversation, but there was only silence. A minute later, the doorbell rang again.

Refusing to admit to herself just how badly she needed a distraction, Freya stood up and tiptoed out of her room, glancing up and down the hallway. Both Nicholas's and Ben's doors were closed: loud rock music blared from Ben's—Nirvana, Freya guessed; he only listened to them when he was upset—and silence from Nicholas's. Either they hadn't heard the bell or were choosing to ignore it.

Freya chewed on the ends of her hair, a nervous habit she'd picked up as a child, as she padded down the staircase to the front door. She could see Jack's silhouette behind the frosted glass, looking nearly as tall as Ben, though she remembered him as being her age. He looked grotesque, unreal, as if he was a monster instead of a boy.

Nicholas had warned her never to open the door to strangers, but Jack wasn't exactly a stranger, and besides, Freya didn't want to leave him standing out in the rain…but it was too late: by the time she opened the door, Jack was already drenched, soaked through by the downpour. It wasn't even the gentle, warm rain of spring or summer; it was the freezing sleet of late autumn. Freya stepped aside, wondering if he wanted to come in, but Jack stayed standing on the front step.

"Took you long enough," he remarked—his voice had already dropped and was a deep baritone, though there was a hint of a nasal quality to it. He pronounced each word carefully, enunciating them clearly. "I was beginning to think you would just leave me waiting out here." If Freya hadn't known better, she would have thought there was a teasing tone to his voice, as if they were good friends. Again, he looked much older than she would have guessed. He pushed back his hood slightly, his blond curls dripping with water. There was something mischievous about his eyes—they were sparking, wild, and the hint of a smirk played at his lips, like he knew all of her secrets and was debating which one to announce first.

Freya hadn't realized she was staring open-mouthed at him until it occurred to her that she hadn't spoken yet. "Sorry," she mumbled automatically, unable to look him in the eyes. "It's just not a very good time for us right now." Why was she apologizing? She didn't owe him anything.

Jack's smirk disappeared, and he took a step forward into the entryway, out of the rain. Freya felt suddenly, ridiculously embarrassed and protective of her house: it was nothing at all like his marble pillared near-mansion. She lived in one of the smaller houses on the block, with its neo-Victorian architecture. Freya had certainly never complained about it before, especially since her bedroom was in one of the turrets, but there was something about the way Jack's gaze swept around the interior, like he was carefully evaluating every piece of furniture, every painting in its frame.

"So…" she began carefully, praying that Nicholas or Ben would rescue her. "It's, um, nice to finally meet you."

Jack's sharp gaze darted back toward her, and this time he grinned easily. "I believe we've met _before_," he corrected, and nodded in the direction of his house.

"Oh," said Freya, feeling distinctly like she was having an out-of-body experience. Maybe she was just dreaming and would wake up any minute. "Yeah, I guess so."

"But just in case you've forgotten, my name is Jack," he offered, and held out his hand. Freya had the sense that he was silently laughing at her, and shook his hand awkwardly before letting go as fast as she could.

"Freya," she muttered in return, and searching for something to say, pointed at the covered dish he was still holding. "What's that?"

Jack glanced down at it as if he'd forgotten its existence before handing it to her. "It's a casserole," he explained. "Isn't that what the family of the deceased is usually given after the funeral?"

Freya blinked. Not only was she stunned that one of the Napiers, the most secretive family in the neighborhood, had made a _casserole _for them, she had no idea how they'd even known about the funeral. "Did…did you make it?"

Jack actually laughed this time—the sound was more pleasant than she'd expected—before shaking his head, the curls falling over his eyes. "No," he said, still chuckling. Freya waited for him to apologize for laughing when she was so obviously distraught, for his expression to morph into one of sympathy, but no apology came. It seemed as if he had no idea what the social norms were in this kind of situation—or that he simply didn't care about them.

"Then why—" she began, about to ask him why he'd brought the casserole over if he hadn't even made it, or even to ask him why he'd refused to become friends with her years ago and was now acting as if they'd known each other their entire lives, but for a reason that she didn't even fully understand, she said, "Thank you," instead.

Jack nodded once and stuffed his hands inside his pockets. He looked as though he was waiting for her to say something else, but before any of them could break the silence she saw the Napiers' front door open again. A slight figure wearing a vintage floral dress stepped out onto their lawn, their hair perfectly coiffed, and Freya guessed that it was Alice, resembling a housewife from the nineteen-fifties calling her child back into the house for dinner.

Jack, seeing that her gaze had moved over his shoulder, turned around to see his mother standing at the edge of the sidewalk, waiting for him. He muttered something Freya couldn't quite hear under his breath before scuffing his shoes and abruptly turning around, all traces of amusement disappearing from his face. Freya blinked at him. "Do you want to stay?" she asked awkwardly, feeling as if she should at least extend the invitation.

His eyes quickly flickered to hers before he stared down at the ground again, and she was reminded of the first time she'd met him; there was something almost sheepish in his demeanor. "Not particularly," he said, and leaned out their front door again. The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, but the porch was absolutely soaked. "But maybe I'll see you around…_Freya." _His lips quirked upwards again as he said her name, as if there was something hilarious about the entire situation.

She could do nothing but nod as she watched him jog down the front lawn and back across the street; Alice had by now disappeared inside the house. For a split second, Freya wondered what would happen if she were to follow him.

Jack stopped just before he reached his driveway, walking backwards and still somehow not managing to hit his father's car. "Don't bother about returning the dish," he called back to her. Freya automatically looked down at the dish; it was a plain, untarnished white, a bit like the exterior of their house. Perfectly normal. Ordinary. But she doubted the Napiers were either ordinary or normal—at least from what she'd seen of them.

Freya stood standing in the same place for a long moment after Jack had vanished, replaying their conversation in her head. She began to wonder if maybe Jack _had _wanted to be friends with her after all, but at the same time knew that, no matter what he said, she wouldn't see him again for a very long time, if ever.

When she finally shut the door and walked into the kitchen, she brought out a plate and cutlery before the thought occurred to her that it might be poisoned. Freya paused in the middle of ladling a piece onto the plate, wishing she'd been more careful. But even so, she couldn't imagine any reason that Jack would have for poisoning her—and even if he did, surely he would be more subtle about it. He _had _told her to keep the dish, after all, but what if that was just so she wouldn't go over to his house to return it? After a moment of deliberation Freya's hunger got the better of her and she hesitantly took a bite.

The casserole was still hot and burned her tongue, but it was surprisingly tasty, and she'd gobbled it up before she could have any more reservations. After she'd waited five minutes to make sure she wasn't choking or vomiting, she scooped out two more pieces and brought them upstairs, hoping that her father and brother were hungry.

Freya knocked on Nicholas's door first, and when there was no answer she cautiously pushed it open, unsure of what she would find. He was sprawled out on his bed—it was _only _his now, Freya reminded herself—and snoring lightly, his hand lying inches from the phone, which was lying off the hook and its cord tangled. Who could he have been talking to? Freya placed the plate on his bedside table before picking up the phone and holding it to her ear. The dull buzz of the dial tone was her only answer, so she gently placed it back on its cradle before tiptoeing out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Ben's music had stopped, so Freya felt it was safe to knock on his door as well. When she heard a muffled "Go away", she took that as an invitation to enter all the same.

Her brother's room had always been messy, but this was taking it to a whole new level. His curtains were pulled tightly shut, allowing no light inside whatsoever. The only glow came from the infrared lamp hanging over the tank in the corner of the room; his snake, Titan, was curled up on one of the rocks, watching Freya with unblinking yellow eyes. Ben's clothes were scattered haphazardly on the floor, and Freya nearly tripped over a soccer ball on her way inside.

"Ben?" she asked the room at large, not spotting him immediately. The covers on his bed suddenly shifted, and Freya saw that he was lying under the blankets, the pillows pulled over his head. A tuft of reddish-brown hair stuck up from the depths of the bed, and he grumbled, "Are you deaf? I said _go away."_

"No," Freya replied, just as fiercely, and nearly shoved the casserole at him. "Jack Napier brought it over. It's actually good. Please, Ben."

He didn't even seem to care about the mention of the Napiers. Instead he burrowed back under the covers. Freya felt a flash of anger—God, maybe she should see a psychologist. She wasn't having any of the right reactions today.

"Benjamin Miller, eat that right now or I'll—"she looked wildly around the room for something to threaten him with, but Ben had already sat up again, staring at her with wide eyes.

"You sound exactly like her," he said hoarsely, looking lost—a little boy waking up from a nightmare only to realize it had come true after all. "…Mom."

The way his voice cracked awakened something in Freya, some aspect of empathy that she didn't even know she had when it came to her brother. She felt her face crumple, and though she would have hated herself for doing it at any other time, she sat down on the edge of Ben's bed and hugged him, feeling the tears finally spill over. Although she could tell he was averse to showing any forms of tender emotion, he eventually hugged her back. They spent the rest of the afternoon crying, the casserole forgotten. It was the closest Freya had felt to Ben in years, and though of course there was no way she could know it then, it was the last time they would ever be that close.


	3. III

**1996**

When Freya was fifteen, she got her first job—a decidedly unglamorous position as a waitress at a restaurant in downtown Gotham.

The money seemed as if it would be the only perk of the job: not only would she be on her feet all day, trying not to drop food and calming down angry customers, she would have to take the forty-minute bus ride into the city and back again. She was two months shy of her sixteenth birthday, and until she got her driver's license, she was stuck with the undesirable commute.

The summer was nearing its end, and there was a hint of a chill in the air, the promise of the upcoming autumn. Freya had spent her months of freedom handing in job applications and watching TV alone; she'd been on her own for the majority of the summer—Nicholas had been working long hours at Wayne Enterprises, as usual, and Ben had gone backpacking in Europe with a group of his friends as a celebration for graduating high school; he'd been held back a year after failing several courses during his (first) senior year. He wasn't returning to Gotham for another week, and Freya had enjoyed the absence of her brother more than she probably should have.

Now it was the first day of her new job, as well as the last day of summer. While everyone else her age was buying last-minute school supplies and enjoying their last day without homework, Freya was standing at the bus stop and shifting nervously from foot to foot, trying to convince herself that her first shift would go well, that she wouldn't trip or cry or freeze up when someone spoke to her. She was beginning to regret accepting the job already. It wasn't too late to run back home and hide under the covers, was it?

But just as she was contemplating doing just that, the bus rounded the corner and screeched to a halt in front of her with a cloud of exhaust. Freya sighed; she had no choice now but to get on. The driver glared at her with narrowed eyes as she hoisted her purse over her shoulder and stuffed a few coins into the machine. A strand of hair fell over her face as she turned away, meeting the driver's gaze once again; he was still glaring at her. She ducked her head and turned away—why was he so angry at her? She'd never seen him before in her life.

Freya took a seat at the very back of the bus, hoping she would be hidden from the driver's prying eyes; she could feel them lingering on her as the bus rattled to life again. She tried to stare out the grimy, dirty window, but she couldn't see anything past the thick layer of dust covering the glass. She tried to scrape it off, but to no avail: the grime was on the outside. Sighing to herself, she settled back into her seat and prepared herself for the long journey ahead. She'd taken this bus once before, the previous week on her way to the interview, but at least the driver there had been female and friendly.

She was now, she realized with a touch of apprehension, the only girl on the bus. Two rowdy twenty-somethings were in the seat across from her, loudly discussing their drunken escapades the previous night, and a middle-aged distinguished gentleman wearing a suit and tie sat closer to the front. The only other passenger was two rows ahead of her. He was slumped down in his seat, a scruffy baseball cap pulled low over his face, shielding him from view. He wore a black T-shirt and ripped jeans. Blond curls spilled under the edges of his hat. He looked to be around Freya's age, roughly fifteen or sixteen, and very familiar.

As if he could sense that she was looking at him, the boy turned his head toward her, tilting his cap up slightly, so she could see the side of his mouth twisting upward in a smirk and a pair of glinting brown eyes.

Jack Napier.

Freya quickly dropped her gaze, embarrassed. Her heart was pounding crazily. How had he known that she was looking at him? Freya hadn't noticed him getting on the bus, but then again she hadn't noticed him when she'd been looking for a seat, either.

Her curiosity quickly took over, and after a moment had passed she hesitantly glanced over at Jack again. He was still turned in her direction, and this time they made eye contact.

Now Jack's smirk had stretched into a grin, and Freya had the strange feeling that there was something taunting about it. What was he _doing? _She hadn't seen him, much less spoken to him, in nearly five years. True to her word, she'd never returned the Napiers' casserole dish, and Jack had all but disappeared. Freya had never completely forgotten their brief conversation, and indeed the memory popped up into her head from time to time, but Jack, like his family, reminded her of a ghost—she knew they were there, but she never _saw _them. In fact, aside from the car in their driveway, she could be forgiven for thinking they'd moved away years ago. His family had lived across the street for nearly a decade, and yet Freya had only seen Jack three times.

Still, the oddity that was the Napier family remained, and Freya could never pass up the chance to investigate a mystery. She met his eyes once more, and this time he beckoned her over to him. She hesitated, unsure whether to move or not—she didn't want to draw any unwanted attention to herself.

Jack rolled his eyes as if he'd somehow read her mind, and, still grinning at her from under the hood of his baseball cap, leapt over the back of his seat and into the one in front of hers with a leonine athleticism, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Freya glanced around to make sure no one had noticed, but luckily the other passengers were still absorbed in their own worlds.

"Well, well, if it isn't Freya Miller," Jack began; his smirk hadn't wavered for an instant since he'd spotted her. "Long time, no see. This is a bit of a coincidence, isn't it?"

She didn't answer right away. Jack rolled his eyes and gestured around them, speaking in that tone of easy familiarity he'd used when he had visited her house. "Listen, they haven't even noticed me," he said. "They're all too caught up in their own little worlds. See?" And he pulled off his cap with a flourish, tossing it up into the air. It spun on the roof for a second before landing with a dull thud on the floor. Jack leaned over to snatch it up before shoving it back onto his head.

Freya hated to admit it, but he was correct, and she was more than a bit unsettled that he'd voiced her exact thoughts. She leaned forward, intrigued. "Fine," she said slowly. "You're right. But what I really want to know is why you keep popping up every few years and why you seem to always recognize me."

Jack laughed; his voice was even deeper than she remembered it, and his entire face lit up, as if he found the whole situation remarkably hilarious. "I could say the same thing about you," he replied, with another quicksilver grin. "We're neighbors, after all."

"I see the dentist more often than I see you," Freya shot back.

His eyebrows raised, anticipating a challenge. "How was the casserole?" he drawled.

"Very good, thank you." Freya was secretly shocked that he even remembered.

"But if you really want to know the truth, we're going to be seeing each other a lot more often. I'm starting at the local high school tomorrow—your father told me that you go there," Jack said.

"My father? When did you see him?"

"This morning," shrugged Jack, as if it was a completely normal occurrence. "He said that you would show me around."

Freya frowned; this was a new development. "I thought you went to a boarding school outside the city." Rumor had it that Bruce Wayne attended the school as well, though no one was completely sure of that fact.

Jack's ever-present smirk widened. "Not anymore."

"Why not?"

He shook his head at her. "You ask too many questions," he chastised. "Now it's my turn. Where are you going?"

Freya crossed her arms over the back of Jack's seat; she was torn between curiosity and apprehension. "Work," she replied curtly.

"Where?"

"You ask too many questions," she echoed.

Jack laughed again, throwing his head back, and this time it was so contagious that she couldn't help but smile grudgingly back. "Touché, Miller," he said. "You're too witty for your own good. Listen—I _know _Gotham. I know all of its streets, its alleys, its hidden secrets, the places that girls like you need to avoid."

It took Freya several seconds before she was able to think of a proper answer. "Well, I know Gotham too," she shot back, slightly indignantly. "I know to avoid the Narrows and stay in the financial district—"

"You don't know Gotham," he insisted. "Not like I do."

"I _live _in Gotham—"

"No, you don't. This—" he gestured around them, to the suburban houses flashing by—"isn't Gotham." He turned his gaze farther out the window, and Freya followed it across the water to the smog-covered skyline, a hulking mass in the distance. Even the clouds above it seemed darker, like the blue sky didn't even dare to encroach on it. _"That_ is Gotham."

"Fine, then. Are you going to be my tour guide?"

Jack shook his head, amused again. "Your shift doesn't end until five. I'm supposed to accompany you home." Before Freya could ask the inevitable question, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. "Your father wanted me to give this to you."

Her mouth fell open, and she snatched it from him and unfolded it, written in Nicholas's messy scrawl, as if he'd been in a hurry:

_Freya,_

_I asked Jack Napier to bring you home—I don't want you wandering around the city at night. I know you aren't very familiar with him, but he is our neighbor and his father George is a respectable man. He'll pick you up from the restaurant once your shift ends._

_Dad_

She crumpled up the paper once she'd finished reading, feeling inexplicably betrayed. "You _followed _me onto the bus?"

Jack shook his head. "I had to go into the city anyway," he announced. "Believe me, I don't particularly want to be your babysitter, either, but I got ten dollars out of it."

"My father is _paying _you to _escort _me home?" Freya nearly screeched. She was already imagining the list of expletives she could scream at Nicholas once she got home—being grounded would be worth it.

"You're telling me," Jack said almost disdainfully. "With a salary like the one he gets, he could have afforded to at least double it. But I'll negotiate next time."

_Like hell there will be a next time, _Freya thought angrily. Jack winked at her as if he was enjoying her anger, and so as not to give him the satisfaction, she took a deep breath and asked, "Where are you going, then?"

"Ah-ah," he mock-scolded her. "It's still my turn to talk." Jack now looked utterly at ease, leaning back in his seat and looking triumphant, "Your father told me the bus station I was supposed to meet you at, but that could be anywhere. So, it's time for a bit of, ah, _detective _work. Now, you said that you wouldn't leave the financial district, so at least we've narrowed it down to a place. You're dressed too casually to be working in one of the more expensive restaurants, and besides, they wouldn't hire a teenager like you, anyway. The fast-food restaurants don't have waitresses, and so that leaves Gotham Gardens." He looked so pleased with himself that Freya was tempted to lie to him just so that he would stop smirking.

She sighed. "Okay, you're right. So we could have had this conversation _without _the dramatics?"

"It wouldn't have been any fun that way." Jack was confident in his superiority. Freya sulked, but she was wondering why she felt so on edge. The three times she'd seen him, he had always appeared out of nowhere and never failed to surprise her. She thought of the quiet, glaring boy she'd first met when they were both children, and marveled at how he was the same person now, all smirks and knowing glances. Everyone changed as they grew up, but she couldn't help feeling that Jack was different.

Freya had been so absorbed in their conversation that she'd barely noticed their arrival into the city: the sound of horns honking, tires screeching, drunken shouts and laughter rushed into her ears at once. The skyscrapers had blocked out the sun. It was a different world here from the idyllic suburbs she had just left.

"Here's your stop," Jack said as the bus ground to a halt.

"I know that," Freya said irritably, and was both irritated and relieved when Jack followed her; although they were in the financial district, the wealthiest part of the city, there was no telling when there might be a drive-by shooting or a homeless person threatening violence. Nicholas had legitimate reasons for his overprotectiveness, and she supposed that she would no longer need a chaperone once she got accustomed to walking around Gotham by herself.

As she climbed off the bus, she glanced nervously at the driver once again, afraid that he would be staring at her, but this time his eyes slid right past her and narrowed as they landed on Jack. So the driver _hadn't _been glaring at her after all—but why did he look so angry at Jack? She looked quizzically at Jack as she hopped down onto the sidewalk, but he was completely unfazed. The bright exterior of Gotham Gardens was plainly visible even a block away, and Freya hesitated, losing Jack for a moment in the crowd pushing past him.

He began to walk away in the opposite direction, but before she even knew what she was doing, she called out, "Hey, Jack!"

When he turned around and looked questioningly at her, she shouted, "I thought you said we couldn't be friends."

"Rules are meant to be broken," Jack said shortly. He pulled the hood of his cap down low again so she couldn't see his face. "See you this afternoon, Miller." And then he was gone, the crowd swallowing him up in an instant.

Freya stayed staring after him for a long moment, aware she was being jostled by impatient pedestrians but brushing off their rudeness. It occurred to her that by asking her where she was going and where she worked, he'd asked her questions he had already known the answers to.

* * *

Of course, she walked into work ten minutes late, and barely managed to stutter out an excuse to her new manager before she was ordered to change into her uniform and embark on a crash course that involved following around another waiter for the day and learning how the restaurant worked. Luckily, as it was the middle of a weekday, there weren't many customers, and by midafternoon she knew how to balance a plate of food with one hand while simultaneously trying not to trip over a chair and had memorized the specials on the menu. Freya was tired from being on her feet all day with barely a lunch break (which she ate in the back room with the other waiters and waitresses; all of them were a good deal older than her) and so when she glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly five, she was quick to untie her apron, grab her purse and hurry out the door—but her manager, a burly man called Bruno, called after her just as she was ducking behind the counter.

"Freya, where do you think you're going?" he asked in a thick Italian accent, pointing at her and frowning disapprovingly. "You still have fifteen minutes left, and a customer just arrived."

So it was going to be one of _those _days. Freya tried to look as ashamed as possible while she grabbed her notepad and a menu. "Where's Julie?" she said, referring to the waitress whom she had shadowed for the majority of the day.

"She just left," Bruno replied. "But I'm sure you can do this one on your own. It's a simple job; let me know if you need any assistance."

Freya nodded and, silently cursing her luck, navigated her way through the empty tables to a booth tucked away in the very back corner, feeling Bruno's watchful eyes on her. "Welcome to Gotham Gardens," she said, sliding the menu onto the table. She had only been working at the restaurant for a day and yet she was already beginning to feel like a puppet, regurgitating the same lines over and over. "Today's special is the mushroom risotto with the house wine, a unique blend from Italy. May I start you off with a drink?"

She didn't notice who the customer was until her pen was already poised on the paper. Jack Napier was sitting alone in the booth, watching her with derisive amusement. Freya was stunned that he hadn't interrupted her speech. "Oh, it's you," she said with a sigh, sticking the pen back into her bun. "I don't get off for another few minutes, so if you don't mind waiting—"

"Who said I was waiting for _you?" _Jack asked; his eyes were sparkling peculiarly. "I'll have the mushroom risotto and a Coke."

He was probably ordering something just to spite her. With a bit more impertinence than she would have used otherwise, Freya said, "I'll get that for you right away," and hurried back into the kitchen. The minute hand on the clock seemed barely to have moved during their conversation; even if her shift ended before his food was ready, she would still have to bring it out to him. Luckily, Bruno was nowhere to be seen—Freya didn't think he would appreciate it if he knew that she was letting the Coke grow warm while she waited for the food.

Twenty minutes later, well past the end of her shift, she finally grabbed the steaming plate of risotto and the glass of Coke before marching out to the dining area. Now that it was nearing dinnertime, more people, primarily men in business suits, were trickling into the restaurant; Freya smiled in gratitude at the waiter who'd replaced her. At least now she was finally free to leave.

Jack was still sitting in the booth, spinning a ten-dollar bill around on the table with deft fingers. He glanced up as Freya approached, smirking when she slid the food in front of him without a word. "Eat as quickly as possible," she advised, "…Please. I just want to get home."

"I can hardly refuse an offer like _that_," he said, sarcasm evident in every syllable, but picked up his fork and began to eat all the same. It was only when the smell of the sauce wafted over to Freya that her stomach growled and she realized how hungry she was. Aside from a brief lunch break, she hadn't had time to eat all day.

"So," she said in order to distract herself from the food, "You're not even going to tell me where you were today?"

Jack shook his head, a slow smile curving across his face. "Of course not," he replied, and with a slight pause, added, "I don't even know you." But the glint in his eyes made the sentence less pointed than it sounded.

Freya dropped her gaze down to the granite tabletop, unable to think of anything else to say. Although she was ravenous, her stomach was churning over the stress of her first day at work and the upcoming anxiety over school the next day. "You look sick, Miller," Jack observed after a moment, and pushed his drink over to her. "Come on, the food isn't _that _bad."

Despite herself, Freya sipped at the Coke, feeling it bubble around in her stomach. It filled her up just enough for her to say, "Thank you."

Jack was now looking at her almost thoughtfully, but at the same time she had the feeling he was silently laughing at her. So quickly that she barely saw it happen, he reached out and snatched a fork from the neighboring table, sending it spinning toward her. "You ought to pay for half of it," he remarked, but he was grinning.

Freya was by now so hungry that she was willing to bear his mockery: she twirled her fork around a piece of risotto and popped it into her mouth. Now it was her turn to look thoughtfully at Jack. She remembered his cold, distant manner when they had first met, his declaration that they could not be friends, contrasted with the quick-witted, cheerful boy sitting across from her now. Back then, she'd been the one chattering on while he stared at her like she'd grown an extra head. Now the tables had, quite literally, turned. _Who are you? _Freya thought.

"What is it you don't like?" Jack asked. "Me escorting you or your dad paying me?"

"Both," Freya said after a moment. "Why?"

But he didn't answer.

They lapsed into silence until the risotto was gone and there was only the water from the melted ice cubes in the Coke left. Jack picked up the glass and finished it in one before pushing the pushing the ten-dollar bill over to her. "Keep the change," he said. Freya could tell by his patronizing smirk that it was the money her father had given him.

As Jack stood up, Freya briefly considered stubbornly staying there and forcing him to leave without her, but she didn't want him to get in trouble with Nicholas. So she reluctantly followed him out of the restaurant and onto the busy, crowded street.

It was nearing twilight; the streetlamps had switched on and the sky was a dark shade of blue above the skyscrapers. Steam rose from the sewers like smoke. Freya hurried to keep up with Jack as he expertly wove his way through the throngs of people on their way home. He stood tall against the crowd, not checking to see whether she was following him or not.

Freya finally caught up with him at the bus station, out of breath. She was clutching at the stitch in her side and her glasses were slipping off her nose. "You—could—have—slowed—down," she panted.

Jack shrugged. "Why?" he asked. "You were keeping up."

Freya was about to give him the dirtiest glare she could muster when there was a loud, piercing scream from somewhere around the corner, followed by a crack that echoed around the block. She had never heard a gunshot before, and her hands flew to her ears as the crowd around them exploded into chaos.

Something roughly grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the pandemonium, down several steps to a small alcove. Jack's eyes were alight with an emotion that seemed out of place considering their situation—excitement?—and he unceremoniously shoved her against the wall. "It's the mob," he explained in a low voice. His eyes were flickering around the scene so fast Freya was dizzy just looking at him. "They occasionally take care of their, uh, _business_ in the open to keep the cops under control."

"How did you know that?" Freya demanded. Her heart was beating so fast that she felt as if it was about to slam right out of her ribcage.

Jack met her gaze then, and there was no questioning it—he was energetic, almost gleeful, like the way Ben looked after his team won a soccer game. "I know Gotham," he responded simply. "Listen, Miller, we're not in any danger. But we need to leave before the barricades are set up." He half-bounded over to the window and shoved it open with his shoulder; Freya was amazed by his strength. The glass shattered inward into a million pieces, the window crumbling and the shards scattering onto the floor below. She jumped back even as Jack swung his leg over the bottom of the pane and turned to her. "Hurry up," he urged, looking impatient.

"No," Freya protested, shaking her head and backing up even more. "Jack, we can't—"For the first time, she was now beginning to feel the stirrings of something akin to fear.

"It's abandoned," he insisted. When she refused to move, he irritably added, "It's safer in here than on the street."

Freya could hear the distant wailing of sirens getting louder in the distance. She imagined what the scene would look like to the police when they showed up: the bus station completely deserted except for two teenagers, one who had broken a window and was about to climb through it. Jack _was _right, she realized with an unpleasant jolt. They had no other choice. With the last of her resistance, she mumbled, "I don't even know you." It was a deliberate echo of Jack's earlier words, and she saw his eyes flash as he remembered them.

"I'm Jack," he said, and held out his hand as if preparing to shake hers. "Miller, we need to leave _now—"_

There was a peculiar urgency in his tone, and just as Freya hesitated, staring at his outstretched hand, there was another gunshot from behind her, closer this time. Freya took a deep, steadying breath—her last coherent thought was _Dad is going to kill me, _and grabbed Jack's hand. He pulled her through the window just as a police car sped by, lights flashing and siren blaring. And as Freya fell into darkness, she had the strange feeling that her life, somehow, had been at a crossroads, and she had just chosen her path.

* * *

**I hope everyone is still enjoying this story! Thank you for all of the support!**


End file.
